The Splitting of the Soul
by TragicComedian
Summary: Tom Riddle was a handsome, intelligent boy with ambition... Emily Ketteridge was the beautiful girl who fell for him. Tom Riddle's story, from his Hogwarts years to his rise as the Dark Lord.
1. Prologue: A New Riddle

**Prologue**

New Year's Eve of 1926 was a hard night in London.

Rain and sleet poured down from the sky in torrential sheets, cold and stinging, and bringing all the bitterness of a January blizzard. Lightning flashed, and thunder rumbled at an almost constant rate. The ferocity of the storm had driven all; Muggles and wizards alike, away from their usual New Year's celebrations in the streets, and into the comfort of their warm homes and blazing fires.

The streets of London being more or less deserted, no one took notice of a lone figure, wandering the about in the late hours of the evening, shortly before midnight. She was small, and deathly skinny so much so that if you were to look at her quickly in passing, your eyes would take her for a walking skeleton. She was pale white, and shivering; her thin arms wrapped around a thin blanket that covered her thin shoulders. Dark, limp black hair framed a homely, hollow face with high, hollow cheekbones. Her lips were blue from the cold, and her teeth chattered nonstop. Her green eyes were dull and downcast; in every way, she looked as though life was no longer worth living. Still, she walked through the streets as though her wanderings had a purpose. One white hand clutched the blanket around her shoulders, the other was placed protectively over her swelled stomach.

She came to a well-lit pub; there was a sign hanging over the door that read 'The Leaky Cauldron'. She pulled open the door and ducked in, relieved to finally be out of the bitter cold. No one noticed her come in, or perhaps they did, but were unwilling to confront such a destitute and pitiful creature. Just then, a young voice called out "'Ere misses, have a nice cup o' tea!"

The woman looked up, wide eyed and fearful, shaking her head.

"Oy, Tom!" Another voice called out to the bartender, "give us another round of firewhisky!"

"Right-o, gents," Tom said, turning away from the shivering woman, unaware that she had stopped dead at the mention of his name.

Tom…

A pang of shame and regret stabbed through her heart, followed quickly by the burn of guilt. Perhaps if she would have just stayed at home… if she had never seen Tom Riddle… maybe she wouldn't be in this desperate predicament. But she was, and she knew that no matter how badly she willed it, no incantation, magic spell or potion would be strong enough to turn back time.

With this in mind, she exited the pub inconspicuously through the back exit, which led her back out into the rain and sleet. Now, however, she was facing a brick wall, against which leaned a waste bin. Slowly, almost like a ghost, she reached beneath the blanked and pulled from her dress pocket a wand. Poising the wand over a certain brick, she tapped it twice and stood back. The bricks leapt aside, creating an archway through which she could see another empty street. 'Diagon Alley,' she thought. She was nearly there. Shivering more fiercely than ever, she began to walk down the cobblestone street, still alone and very, very cold. All the shops were closed for the holiday, and the street was dark, save for the gas lamps that stood upright like noble guardians every 10 feet along the lane. Before long, the woman turned off of Diagon Alley, onto a much darker street, where no light was cast, save for the eerie glow of a cat's eyes in the dark, as it crouched beneath an empty cart.

She stopped in front of a severe-looking shop, called Borgin and Burke's. She gazed in the window, hands pressed to the cold glass. On the shelves were several sinister-looking objects, like skulls and other talismans. She saw the dim light of a single candle coming from the back room… and then a sinister face appeared in the window.

The girl opened her mouth in a silent scream, and backed away.

The door opened, and the sinister man, Burke, stepped out into the night.

"What do you want?" he asked scathingly, wand raised.

"I-I-I…" she stumbled.

He raised his wand higher and moved closer. "Cat got your tongue?"

"Please… I- I just-"

"I don't take kindly to trespassers, girl!" he threatened.

"P-please… I-I have something to sell!" she said desperately.

She reached around her neck; the blanket fell away, but she didn't care. A bolt of lightning illuminated the sky, and the man saw exactly what she was fumbling with.

His heart stopped.

"It can't be…" he said, reaching toward the locket on the girl's throat.

She froze.

"Do you know what this is?" He continued in awe, "And you would sell this?"

"I-I just need money," she said breathlessly, "Please."

Burke remained silent, still transfixed by the locket. Jerking out of the trance, he cleared his throat, knowing that he was about to make the best deal of his career, and said gruffly, "Very well. Inside with you."

Ten minutes later, the woman left the shop, a small purse clutched in her hand. She had just turned back onto Diagon Alley, heading toward the Leaky Cauldron, when suddenly a pain that she knew was not from hunger caused her to clutch her stomach. She gasped for breath, leaning against the lamppost for support.

"Not yet…" she pleaded silently to no one. After a moment or two, the pain died away, and she continued down the street and into the Leaky Cauldron once more. She sat down at the bar, and the young barman, Tom, once again said, "'Ow bout that cup o' tea, then, miss?"

She nodded sullenly.

A moment later, he set a steaming cup before her, and a plate of crumpets.

"There ye are," he said with a comforting smile.

With a trembling hand, she lifted the cup to her mouth, relishing in the heat that the tea produced. She devoured the crumpets also; not remembering when he last meal had been. No sooner had she finished than the pain began again. Knowing she had to leave, she set a gold Galleon on the bar, and left the pub without a word.

Once again in the Muggle part of town, she began to walk until she came to a large, brick building. By this time, the pain of her impending labor was so great that she had to bite her lower lip to keep herself from crying out. Dragging her too-thin body up the brick steps, she rang the bell, praying for someone to answer.

Peals of laughter rang out from inside, and a moment later, a plump, matronly woman in her mid-thirties answered the door. When she saw the girl standing on the steps, her jovial expression was immediately replaced with horror and pity.

"Dear me…" she said, looking down at the sopping girl.

"Please… my-my baby…" the woman on the doorstep groaned.

Noticing her swollen belly, the matron knew that she was about to give birth.

"Inside with you, dearie," she said, opening the door to let the girl in. The faces of several children peered intently through the banister.

"To bed with all of you!" the matron barked.

"But Mrs. Cole! It's New Year's!"

"Come on, Mrs. Cole!"

"I said to bed!"

The children scurried off.

"Agnes!" Mrs. Cole called. A very tall, think woman with wire-rimmed spectacles appeared in the doorway. "Prepare a fire in the parlor and bring blankets and hot water. Then fetch the doctor. This poor girl's about to be a mum!"

The thin woman dashed off immediately, as Mrs. Cole helped the girl into the parlor. "Come on dearie, that's it… just a bit further to walk," she coaxed. "What's your name, child?" she asked.

"M-Merope," the girl responded weakly.

Strange name, the matron thought. And for a strange girl, too, she thought. Merope was no beauty, but there seemed to be an air of mystery surrounding her nonetheless, as though, somehow, she was different… But no matter, thought Mrs. Cole.

She laid Merope down on a wide sofa in the parlor, where Agnes had managed to build up a substantial fire, and was now preparing to fetch the doctor. By the time he arrived, the baby was ready to be born.

The delivery was painful; Merope cried out several times in pain. After a half an hour, however, she gave birth to a baby boy. The doctor picked up the newborn and struck him, to ensure he could breathe, but to his surprise, the baby did not cry. Instead, he opened his baby eyes a tiny bit, and seemed to stare at the doctor through the slits. The doctor had never seen anything like it in his whole career.

"Is he all right?" Merope whispered hoarsely from where she lie, covered in sweat and shivering.

"Yes," the doctor replied, his eyes not leaving the baby's stare.

Mrs. Cole took the infant from him, and placed him in Merope's arms. "Here you are, dearie. Have you thought of a name for him?"

"Tom," Merope breathed. "Tom… for his father. And… Marvolo… after his grandfather."

"Tom Marvolo…" the matron repeated, wondering once more at the strange name.

"His papa was such a handsome man," Merope said softly, stroking the baby's head with a trembling hand. "I-I can only hope that he'll grow to look like him."

Merope began to shake even more violently, knowing that her strength was leaving her.

"And his surname, mum?" the doctor asked.

Drawing her final breath, and gazing down at her son for the first and last time, she said,

_"Riddle…"_

A/N: Review and let me know if i should continue...

Also, just a note... as far as the timeline goes, I've been surfing on Harry Potter Lexicon for dates of events like Riddle's birth...and I'm planning to make this as canon as possible, so if you notice any inconsistencies with JKR's, dont hesitate to point them out to me

Disclaimer: I dont own Harry Potter... it belongs to the extraordinary J.K. Rowling.


	2. The Muggles

Chapter 1

"I did not!"

"You did too!"

"I did not!"

"Did _too!_"

"Lizzie, give it back!"

Nine-year-old Tom Riddle awoke that particular Saturday as he always did, to bickering voices coming from the halls of the orphanage. He turned over on his bed, away from the wall he had been facing, and scowled in the direction of the door. Consulting the secondhand wristwatch that he had nicked from one of the younger boys, he saw that it was not yet eight-o'-clock in the morning. Glaring at the voices that seemed to be just outside his door, he swung his thin legs out of bed and threw on a dressing gown, before pulling open the door. His eyes fell immediately on a boy and girl, both of whom looked to be about five or six years old, wrestling each other on the floor over a small toy automobile. When they heard Tom's door creak open, however, they immediately fell silent.

"What's going on?" he asked in a stern voice, more menacing than any other nine-year-old could possibly be capable of.

"N-nothing," the boy answered fearfully.

Tom raised an eyebrow.

"We're s-sorry," the girl said, lower lip trembling. The look in Tom's eyes was furious, and little Lizzie was more afraid of him than she had ever been of Mrs. Cole, the matron at the orphanage.

"Clear out," said Tom scathingly, "Before I make you regret it."

The boy and girl needed no further urging. They fled down the hall, neither of them daring to look back. The toy car that had been the object of their argument was lying abandoned on the floor. Tom stooped down and picked it up. Going back into his room and shutting the door behind him, he went over to his old, rickety wardrobe and took out a small, wooden box. Inside the box were several odd trinkets; a handkerchief, a mouth organ, and a yo-yo among them. Nothing in the box belonged to Tom; he had taken all of it from the other orphans. On occasion, he had been caught and lectured about stealing and had received a sound beating with Mrs. Cole's feared willow cane, but the thrill of taking what was not his was a tempting, empowering force that he found himself driven by. With a victorious smirk, the toy car was added to the collection. Tom looked over his trinkets one more time, before putting the lid back on the box and storing it once more in its place in the wardrobe.

Stretching and yawning, he decided that he might as well dress for the day. He did so, and then checked his appearance in the small, cracked mirror that hung beside the wardrobe. At the age of nine, he still had the rounder face of a boy, but his eyes were already an intense shade of emerald green, and always seemed to have a certain sparkle of ambition in them. His clothes were faded and worn- a fact that Tom deeply resented. The frayed trousers, shirts and sweaters were a constant reminder that he was poor and parentless- less than the rest of society. Perhaps it was this that gave his eyes such intensity and drover him with such fervor; he was filled with an overwhelming contempt for the way that he was forced to live at the orphanage, and consumed by the desire to rise above this pathetic existence. He hated his mother for abandoning him… Mrs. Cole told him that she had died giving birth to him, without much of a clue as to who his father was, or where to find him.

Tom idolized his father.

In his mind, Tom Riddle senior (for he had been told he was named for the man) was a strong, brave, handsome man, fearless and proud. Tom always believed that there was some reason why his father had never come for him. Maybe he had been captured by Soviet Union spies… maybe he was working undercover in some far-off country… or maybe (and this was the young Riddle's greatest hope),maybe his father was out there right now, searching night and day for his beloved son.

Tom had dreamt long hours about the day that his father would come to the orphanage and say, "I'm here to claim my son!" He dreamt of living, just his father and him, living together in the country, happy. These dreams, sadly, had not come true, and Tom was grudgingly coming to accept that they probably never would. Still, he nursed a small spark of hope that someday, somehow, he and his father would meet face to face.

XxXxXxX

From the time Tom Riddle had been a very small child, Mrs. Cole had known he was different from the other children. Physically, he had always been small, thin, and pale, preferring to remain indoors rather than go outdoors with the other orphans. He was very quiet, with a voice that could command an entire room with a whisper. There was a look in his eyes far too mature for a young boy; he had stared down Mrs. Cole herself on many an occasion, unperturbed by her (somewhat drunken, as she was partial to gin) threats and her willow cane. But his strangeness went deeper than just outward appearance. Mrs. Cole had noticed over the nine odd years that Riddle had lived in the orphanage, that whenever he was near, _strange_ things tended to happen. Little things, like glass breaking sporadically, or books falling off of shelves, those were things that Mrs. Cole cold make excuses for or find logical explanations for. But other things happened too… one day little Abigail Finch had been crying in the hall (her mother having just passed on, leaving her orphaned), when Tom Riddle had opened his door and whispered something to the girl. Mrs. Cole hadn't caught what it was; she had been coming up the stairs, when suddenly Abigail, who had been crying and shrieking uncontrollably for hours, fell completely silent. The matron had walked in on the scene; Abigail had been sitting on the floor, with a dazed, trance-like look on her face, and Tom Riddle was leaning casually in his doorframe. When he saw Mrs. Cole's large frame appear on the stair, Tom had simply turned away without another word and shut his door. The girl, Abigail, had been extremely quiet ever since the event, over three years ago. She rarely spoke at all, and when she did, it was never above a whisper. She wasn't the only one, though. Once on a lakeshore outing, some of the children had gone off exploring a cave nearby. Tom had been seen entering one of the caves with Amy Benson and Dennis Bishop. And when they came out, both of them hadn't been able to remember anything. Amy had suffered from strange nightmares ever since, and Dennis would sometimes begin talking to himself suddenly, though no one could understand what he was saying. At the age of ten, Tom Riddle was more feared than any of the older boys. The older children had stopped trying to befriend him, and the young ones were known to tiptoe around his door.

Yes, Tom Riddle was a funny one, Mrs. Cole thought. Likely he would come of age, leave the orphanage, and the next time she'd see him would be on a wanted poster. It was the kind of fate that awaited the dark and reclusive types, she had seen it before. Tom wouldn't be the first orphan boy to turn bad, nor would he be the last, she mused one day as she sat in her office, a glass of gin in her hand. It was a sunny afternoon in May, and most of the children were running about outside.

Without warning, she heard screams coming from upstairs. Raising her eyes, she groaned, rousing herself from her comfortable position in her arm chair, and placed her gin glass on the table, half-full. Another shriek rang out, and Mrs. Cole paused, looked back at the glass, picked it back up, and swallowed the last of the liquor.

She followed the sound of the din to a bedroom on the fourth floor, where a gaggle of children had gathered.

"Wot's going on, then?" she asked, seeing the children's petrified faces.

One of the older girls, who looked as though she'd been crying, said, "The rabbit… it's dead…"

Mrs. Cole's eyebrows raised. "Dead? Whose rabbit? What's going on?" she demanded.

She pushed her way through the crowd of children, into the room. A young boy was sitting in the middle of the room, sobbing uncontrollably. And above him…

"Mary, mother of God," Mrs. Cole muttered under her breath. "How…?"

Suspended from the rafters by a short length of rope, a good eight feet in the air, was a dead rabbit.

Mrs. Cole's eyes grew dark and angered. "Who is responsible for this?" she asked sharply, turning to face the children. "Well?" she said, when no one answered.

"We don't know, mum," said one of the boys. "No one's been in Billy's room all day. We've all been outside. 'Cept for…" but he stopped quickly and looked down at the floor, as though he shouldn't have spoken at all.

But Mrs. Cole knew all too well who he was talking about. The only boy who _never _went outdoors…

"Tom Riddle!" she said. "To my office. Immediately."

"What did you do to that rabbit?" Mrs. Cole accused, not a moment after her office door had shut.

Tom was seated in a chair on the opposite side of her desk, staring at her levelly with his intense emerald eyes. He sat casually, as though he were having tea, and not being interrogated about killing a living creature. He remained silent.

"Answer me, Riddle! Unless you'd prefer I cane you."

He looked amused, she thought, at her threats. It made her uncomfortable. Here he was, ten years old, and _she_ felt like the younger of the two.

"I never laid a _hand_ on the rabbit," Tom said, speaking very softly, yet Mrs. Cole could understand every word. "And that's the only answer I have to offer you."

"Are you telling me that the rabbit just got some rope and hung itself of its own accord?" she snapped.

"Stranger things have happened," he replied mysteriously. Then, without even being dismissed, he stood up, holding eye contact with Mrs. Cole, and walked out. Dumbfounded, the matron could think of nothing to do or say to stop him.

XxXxXxX

A/N: I love feedback, so review and let me know what you think!


	3. Dumbledore

Chapter 2

A/N: just so everyone knows, the dialogue between Dumbledore and Riddle was taken directly from Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, Chapter 13. I'm trying to keep it as close to the books as possible, so credit for the dialogue goes to the wonderful J.K. Rowling!

* * *

As the weeks melted into months, the mystery of how Billy's rabbit was killed went unsolved. The orphans all had their suspicions as to the identity of the culprit, but it became a secret among them; a secret that none of them dared utter, for fear that by some supernatural occurrence, they might be overheard. And so in this way, Tom Riddle became even more feared by the children of the orphanage.

By his eleventh year, he was almost a total recluse, spending almost all of his time in his room. Mostly in his solitude he read; countless books, most of them history books about death and domination. He felt he could relate to some of the struggles that he read about; he was inspired by men who had risen from nothing, and had managed to make a name for themselves, a name that would be carried forever through history, a name that could spark fear in the hearts of many with a single utterance. Tom wanted that kind of power. He knew that the children feared him, and he gained a small sense of satisfaction every time he would dwell on it. If only someone would give him a place to start… a chance to prove himself…

Little did he know that chance was approaching the orphanage at that very moment, clad in a purple velvet-pinstripe suit.

Little did he know then that in just a short while, he would be given the keys to the door of ambition that he had been walking toward since his birth.

Little did he know… that he was a wizard.

xXxXxXxXx

_Ding-DONG!_

From his room, Tom heard the obnoxiously loud orphanage doorbell chime, echoing down the halls before fading away. He vaguely wondered who would possibly come visiting the orphanage on a Sunday afternoon in August. The summer was one of the hottest he could remember, and the orphanage was strangely quiet as a result, with most of the children preferring to nap than do anything else.

Deciding that he didn't care, Tom returned to his book, becoming once more absorbed in the words, until he heard footsteps approaching. He knew that one of the people standing outside his door was Ms. Cole—the rhythmic _clack-clack_ of her high-heeled shoes gave that much away. But she was accompanied by someone else; from the sound of the voice it was a man.

Ms. Cole knocked twice, and the door opened.

The matron strode in, followed by the strangest man Tom had ever seen in his life. Tall and gangly, the stranger was clad in a flamboyantly colored suit made of crushed velvet. He wore half-moon spectacles, and had long auburn hair, adding to the overall oddity of his appearance.

Even stranger than the visitor, Tom thought, was the fact that Ms. Cole did not seemed perturbed by his appearance. Tom had grown up under Ms. Cole's care for eleven years, and he knew (and probably better than anyone else) that the matron didn't hold with anything that appeared out of place, unorthodox, or just plain weird. However, this tendency seemed absent today, as though the stranger had put some sort of spell on the woman...

"Tom?" Ms. Cole said, "You've got a visitor. This is Mr. Dumberton—sorry, Dunderbore. He's come to tell you-" she hesitated. "Well, I'll let him do it," she finished. She gave the tall man a look, and he nodded, as though signaling that it was all right for her to leave.

She strode out of the room, closing the door behind her, leaving man and boy alone.

Neither spoke for a few moments.

From where he sat, Tom eyed the stranger warily. He looked strange, and Tom was immediately suspicious of him.

The man was the first to break the silence.

"How do you do, Tom?" He moved closer, and extended his hand.

Wary look still on his face, Tom shook the man's hand. His fingers seemed unnaturally long and bony. The man gave him a reassuring smile, before pulling up an old, rickety chair and sitting down.

He crossed one leg over the other casually, then said, "I am Professor Dumbledore."

Tom's scowl deepened. "Professor?" he repeated. "Is that like 'doctor'? What are you here for?" He cast a look at the door, and Dumbledore noticed a flash of anger in his eyes. "Did _she_ get you in here to have a look at me?" he asked, pointing back to the door.

"No, no," said Dumbledore with a smile.

The smile made something snap inside Tom. How dare this man come into his room, and pretend that he, Tom, wasn't smart enough to realize what was going on.

"I don't believe you!" he said belligerently. "She wants me looked at, doesn't she? Tell the truth!" he commanded forcefully.

In the next moment, Tom experienced something that he had never experienced before. Rather than look threatened or disturbed by his outburst, the man before him- Dumbledore- simply continued to smile down at him, like he was a doll or a clown, with a painted expression that nothing could break. In that moment, a tiny seed of fear took root in Tom's heart. He had always been able to command anyone he wanted… anyone… but not this man. For once in his life, Tom felt as though he was not in control of the situation. And not being in control was what scared him more than anything.

"Who are you?" he asked finally.

The man's smile still did not falter as he began his explanation. "I have told you. My name is Professor Dumbledore and I work at a school called Hogwarts. I have come to offer you a place at my school—your new school, if you would like to come."

Tom jumped from the bed as though possessed. This was a trap, he thought. This was all a setup. Ms. Cole had finally done it—she'd finally gotten someone to have him committed.

"You can't kid me!" he cried. "The asylum, that's where you're from, isn't it?"

From where he sat, Dumbledore could see the mixture of fear and anger in the boy's eyes. It was as though the two were warring, to see who would manifest itself.

"'Professor'," Tom said sarcastically, "yes, of course—well, I'm not going, see? That old cat's the one who should be in the asylum. I never did anything to little Amy Benson or Dennis Bishop, and you can ask them, they'll tell you!"

"I am not from the asylum," Dumbledore said calmly, as though Tom's explosion had had no effect on him at all. "I am a teacher, and if you will sit down calmly, I shall tell you about Hogwarts. Of course, if you would rather not come to the school, nobody will force you-"

"I'd like to see them try," Tom scoffed.

Dumbledore continued, "Hogwarts is a school for people with special abilities,"

"I'm _not_ mad!" Tom interjected again, anger once again dominating his tone of voice.

Dumbledore regarded him seriously in that moment. "I know that you are not mad. Hogwarts is not a school for mad people. It is a school of magic."

Tom, who had been prepared to interject again, froze, expressionless. _Magic?_ He thought. Did this man think he was crazy? There was no such thing…

But he looked at Dumbledore's expression—there was no sign of laughter in his eyes, no sign of this being a joke. His look was perfectly serious. Tom's heart began to beat faster.

_Magic…_

"Magic?" he whispered.

"That's right."

"It's… it's magic, what I can do?" he asked incredulously.

"What is it that you can do?" Dumbledore inquired.

Still hardly bearing to believe that this wasn't an illusion, he said softly, "All sorts. I can make things move without touching them," he began to look more excited by the second—a wild, impassioned look replaced the fear and anger that had existed moments before. "I can make animals do what I want them to, without training them. I can make bad things happen to people who annoy me. I can make them hurt if I want to."

He sat back down on the edge of his bed, not looking at Dumbledore.

"I knew I was different," he whispered, more to himself than to Dumbledore. "I knew I was special. Always, I knew there was something."

"Well, you were quite right," Dumbledore's voice broke into Tom's thoughts. "You are a wizard."

When Tom raised his head, gone was the uncertain boy who had just been sitting on the edge of his little bed, in this little orphanage, in a little world. In his place, was a boy with purpose, a boy with ambition, who had just been given the keys to a whole new world. There was a wild look his eyes; a wild, happy look, and his eyes were blazing with it.

"Are you a wizard too?" he asked.

"Yes, I am," came the reply.

"Prove it," Tom challenged. "Tell the truth," he commanded again.

Dumbledore raised his eyebrows. "If, as I take it, you are accepting your place at Hogwarts-"

"Of course I am!"

"Then you will address me as 'Professor' or 'sir'," Dumbledore finished sternly.

Tom's expression became indignant for a fleeting instant, before he composed himself. "I'm sorry, sir," he said politely. "I meant—please, Professor, could you show me-"

Tom could barely believe his eyes at what happened next. From the depths of his flashy purple suit, Dumbledore drew a long, thin stick-- a magic wand— pointed it at his wardrobe, gave the wand a quick flick, and the next thing he knew, the wardrobe was blazing.

Tom jumped from the bed for the second time that day. His first thought was that everything he owned, all of his possessions, were being consumed by flames. He let out a cry of rage, but suddenly the flames disappeared.

The wardrobe stood, looking exactly as it had moments ago.

Dumbledore stood, expressionlessly.

"Where can I get one of them?" Tom demanded.

"All in good time," he responded. "I think there is something trying to get out of your wardrobe."

Tom whirled around to face the wardrobe again. There was a definite rattling coming from the inside. He looked back at Dumbledore fearfully.

"Open the door," Dumbledore said simply.

Tom did so, and immediately saw what it was that was causing the disturbance. It was the box that he kept on the top shelf of the wardrobe, the box that contained the odds and ends that he had collected over the years.

"Is there anything in that box you ought not to have?" Dumbledore asked, his stern tone returning once more.

Tom gave him a hard look, before responding, "Yes, I suppose so, sir."

"Open it."

Grudgingly, Tom obliged, spilling the contents of the box onto the bed. As the objects tumbled out, they ceased their shaking.

"You will return them to their owners with your apologies," said Dumbledore. He peered over the rims of his spectacles at Tom. "Be warned: Thieving is not tolerated at Hogwarts."

"Yes, sir."

"At Hogwarts we teach you not only to use magic, but to control it. You have—inadvertently, I am sure—been using your powers in a way that is neither taught nor tolerated at our school You are not the first, nor will you be the last, to let your magic run away with you. But you should know that Hogwarts can expel students, and the Ministry of Magic—yes, there is a Ministry," Dumbledore added, seeing the look of incredulity on Tom's face when he said this, "the Ministry will punish lawbreakers still more severely. All new wizards must accept that, in entering our world, they abide by our laws."

"Yes, sir."

Tom's mind was churning. _Our world,_ Dumbledore had said. This place… this… Hogwarts… was part of something bigger, part of a larger world. A world separate from the world he knew now, a strange world, waiting for him to enter it. Suddenly, a thought drifted into his mind, threatening to shatter the precious bubble of excitement.

"I haven't got any money," he said.

Dumbledore smiled. "That is easily remedied." He reached again into his suit pocket, and took out a small leather pouch. "There is a fund at Hogwarts for those who require assistance to buy books and robes. You might have to buy some things secondhand, but—"

"Where do you buy spellbooks?"

"In Diagon Alley," Dumbledore responded. "I have your list of books and school equipment with me. I can help you find everything--"

"You're coming with me?" Tom asked, tearing his eyes away from the strange coins that the money bag contained.

"Certainly, if you-"

"I don't need you," Tom said stubbornly. "I'm used to doing things for myself. I go round London on my own all the time. How do you get to this Diagon Alley—sir?"

Dumbledore handed Tom a parchment envelope.

"You will be able to see it, although Muggles around you—non-magical people, that is—will not. Ask for Tom the barman—easy enough to remember, as he shares your name."

Dumbledore noticed the boy flinch.

"You dislike the name 'Tom'?" he asked.

"There are a lot of Toms," Tom responded, looking down and picking at a loose thread in the bedspread. "Was my father a wizard?" he asked. "He was called Tom Riddle too, they've told me."

"I'm afraid I don't know," Dumbledore said gently.

A wistful look filled the boy's eyes. "My mother couldn't have been magic, or she wouldn't have died," he said quietly. "It must've been him." He looked up at Dumbledore. "So—when I've got all my stuff—when do I come to this… Hogwarts?"

"You will find all of the details on the second piece of parchment in your envelope. You will leave from King's Cross Station on the First of September. There is a train ticked in there too."

Tom nodded solemnly.

Dumbledore rose, holding out his hand once more to shake Tom's.

As he shook Dumbledore's hand, Tom said the one thing that had been nagging at the back of his mind.

"I can speak to snakes. I found out when we we've been to the country on trips—they find me, they whisper to me. Is that normal for a wizard?" He met Dumbledore's eyes with a stare that seemed much too mature for an eleven-year-old.

"It is unusual," Dumbledore replied, "but not unheard of."

Tom noticed the way that Dumbledore had hesitated before answering, and he felt almost victorious in a way.

Dumbledore turned then, preparing to take his leave.

"Good-bye, Tom. I shall see you at Hogwarts."

"Good-bye, Professor."

Dumbledore left the room, shutting the door as he did so.

No sooner had the door clicked shut, Tom vaulted off the bed and opened it again, as if trying to convince himself that the encounter had actually just occurred. Sure enough, he saw the back of Dumbledore's purple suit, at the top of the stairs. He must have heard Tom's door open, because he paused, looked back, and gave a wink and a small nod.

Then he turned back around, and when Tom blinked, he was gone.

* * *

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